The Scarlet Letter
by Somigliana
Summary: Hermione receives a Howler after waking alone...


**The Scarlet Letter

* * *

**The net curtain flutters slightly, trapped from flowing gracefully on the breeze by a high-heeled shoe pinning its hem. The other shoe lies across the room under a silken tangle of stockings. In the centre of the room, a tumble of velvet lies dark against the plush, white carpet. A black lace bra and its matching thong are caught up in the twist of covers at the foot of the bed. 

The pearl-grey dawn chases the moonlight into the shadows, and it steals softly into the hotel room, promising blue skies and summer heat.

She sighs softly, and her eyelashes flutter. A lazy smile lifts the corners of her kiss-swollen mouth as she slides her hand across the rumpled sheets. The bed next to her is cold and empty... abandoned. Her fingers curl into her palm, and disappointment draws her smile downwards as she opens her eyes to stare at the unfamiliar ceiling.

_I thought..._

She shakes her head, and she sits up, muscles protesting with satiated fatigue. The sheet slides off the curve of her breasts, pooling at her waist. Her long, curly hair falls in a matted tangle around her shoulders. Perfume lingers on her skin, mingled with another scent... a spicy, masculine aftershave.

Footsteps outside somewhere below draw her back into the real world. Last night she'd let go, let him draw her into this, dropped her inhibitions and control. Her heart races again as the evening steals into her mind: golden lights turned down low, lingering kisses, moonlight tracing their skin as bodies Levitated on a sparkling bed of magic.

_Stupid idiot,_ she thinks as she draws the sheet up over her breasts again, and one leg slides off the bed, toes brushing the carpet.

_They warned me, and they were right,_ she thinks sadly. She's disappointed in him, and she's furious with herself. _It felt like it was more... but in the end I'm just like another Quidditch groupie to him._

The small fireplace flickers emerald, and a scarlet envelope soars, loops, and drops to the bed, smoking gently, vibrating expectantly.

"Oh, shit," she says, biting her lower lip. _How did they know where we went?_

The Howler starts to scorch the sheets, and Hermione sighs and reaches for it resignedly. She opens the flap, scrunching her eyes and wincing as she waits for the bellowing admonishments and loudly smug commentary from the two boys.

As she holds her breath, the net curtain tugs free from the shoe and floats upwards on the air as a soft, velvet, accented voice twists sinuously around her, caressing her senses.

"Dobro utro, Hermione. I had to leave early for Quidditch practice, and I did not vant to vake you. After, I am seeing the manager for Puddlemere. I am thinking perhaps to play a bit in England."

Her mouth opens slightly with amazement.

"I vas so sorry to leave you alone in bed this morning. You vere so beautiful... I vanted to stay longer, to taste your skin again, to be inside of you again."

She swallows as phantom hands skim along her skin, her body remembering the passion they shared last night, the soft kisses and Bulgarian endearments murmured along each curve of her body.

"I have vanted to be vith you for very long, Hermione. But you vere..." His voice breaks off, and she can hear him muttering something in Bulgarian to himself.

_Ron,_ she thinks. _He kept his distance when I was with Ron._

A memory makes her smile wryly: Viktor at Bill's wedding, giving her a wry smile, complimenting her subtly. She'd been very distracted then, though, and until now the memory had faded into grey insignificance. Until she'd seen him standing across the room at the Ministry function, his dark eyes smouldering and intense. All that delicious, dark intensity focussed on her last night.

The invisible voice grows husky. "Stay, please, so ve can talk later? There is much I vant to say."

Hermione puts her hand to her mouth, smiling delightedly. She and Viktor have always had chemistry, and she wants to explore what they could be. Her age, the war, other lovers—none of these stand in the way now.

His last words are barely more than a soft murmur on the breeze, but they make her pulse stutter. "Običam te, Hermione. I alvays have."

The scarlet envelope tears itself into long ribbons which twist and fold over and under themselves in a golden shimmer of magic, forming a perfect rose.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I'd like to think that Howlers can be used for so much more than ranting and recrimination!  
Dobro utro good morning.  
Običam te I love you.

Written for a challenge at lj's romancingwizard. The prompt was: morning-after Howler.


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